The bottle: The bottle bobbed and ducked as the shore teased and flirted. Needing to rest on dry land, the bottle was at the mercy of the sea.
For five days it (bottles are non-binary) had made its way to this very point. No goal. No target. Come what may. And this was the preordained destination.
This is where it would come to rest. The document inside, scrawled hastily, barely readable, the message was strong. The bottle must be strong too. Not much further. Hang on. HANG ON.
The shore: Billions of particles nestled together, a very imperfect plan.
The shore had been through a lot. Shifting sands, pardon the pun, wars, coastal erosion, that year when millions of turtles had held a diapsid orgy, countless Spring Breaks, a dozen beached whales and endless cigarette butts and trash.
The shore was tired of this shit. Tired of the scummy foam, the pollutants, the frikkin sand fleas. The scabby feet and gross skin folds. There had to be something more. The shore had waited long enough. Something had to happen. And it had to happen soon.
The message: A scrap of paper. A fragment of time. Scribbled. Scrunched. Sent to the depths. The message, merely words and ciphers, a moment’s outpouring.
A lonely cry in the dark.
One in a million. A forgotten love? A written regret? A ruddy great ruse? The biggest lie that was ever told?
Trapped within this glass case of emotion, the message needed to be set free but felt right at home. The gentle rhythm of the ocean. The passing sights and sounds.
This was something the message could call its own.
